


Fourth Wall

by Luthor



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina is a writer. She writes about the same character, Emma Swan, in all of her novels, and she knows this character so well that she can practically hear her talking within her head…</p><p>Regina has not moulded Emma on herself. The fact that they’re both orphans who have no idea where they came from is purely coincidence – Regina doesn’t want to write about herself, she wants to write about Emma, and Emma has her own story that needs to be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourth Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Due to my procrastination getting out of control, I've just written 3000+ words instead of revising for my exam. I'd be annoyed with myself, but... 
> 
> This came from an idea I had a while ago, it hasn't seen a beta, and it's still unfinished. I'm not sure if/how often it will get updated, but I thought I'd post, anyway, seeing as I've spent so much of my revision-time writing it. If anyone is interested in/confused by the timeline, just let me know, I think I have a good enough grasp on it to know what I'm doing.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! Kudos/comments/etc is all greatly appreciated.

_The library was there, just as her anonymous tipper had suggested, a tall, bleak building that was as imposing as the expressionless, crumbling statues of sleeping owls that stood guard on either side of the doors to its main entrance._

_Emma kicked at a tuft of grass peeking up between the flagstones, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. The south facing windows were all boarded over, and she had little hope for those set into the library’s other three sides. Through the twin handles on the door, a thick chain coiled, padlock hanging limply at its centre._

_Not impenetrable, but certainly bothersome._

_Fingering the card within her front pocket, Emma made her way up the entrance steps. There had been no mention of breaking and entering, but her anonymous caller had been direct; she had to be inside the building by seven twenty._

_With a quick, resolute shake of the chains that barred her entry, Emma turned and began to walk back the way she had come. If she could get over the back wall, she thought, and into the library’s overgrown gardens, perhaps there would be some way of getting inside without putting through a window. It was still early – she was unlikely to be caught – but her anonymous tipper’s flare for the dramatic had induced a bout of caution within her._

_If they could get inside the building without breaking in, so could she._

_As she had suspected, a cluster of dustbins had been lined against one wall. It took only a quick push and pull to get atop them and over the wall. Beneath her, she saw, a splintered shelf was leaning into the stone. She tested its weight, and, as it merely wobbled, carefully lowered herself down._

_She reached the ground with a sharp smack of the shelf upon the wall, and glanced back to the northern side of the library to see whether her entrance had been heard. She shook the tenseness out of her shoulders easily; the library was deserted, who was there to hear her? And yet her fingers trembled as she reached inside of her pocket to draw out the card that had been left, tucked safely behind one windscreen wiper, by her anonymous tipper._

Roundtable Library, 7:20. Waiting inside. Come alone.

 

_She was beginning to regret agreeing to that last request, and tucked the card away as she began to cross the garden. The area used to be known for its natural beauty, and as is the same with any topic of wonder, people had gathered in their masses. The land had been starved, houses built, a society erected, and then crumbled when attention was drawn elsewhere. Now, nature took its slow revenge._

_Weeds sprouted up between what once appeared to be an intricate mosaic patio, and climbing ivy clung to the walls, growing thicker and greener the higher up Emma looked, as though feeding on the decaying building it had attached itself to._

_A wind blew in over the surrounding walls, swarming Emma. The gardens became an arena and the wind itself some terrific bull spirit. Leaves whistled and moaned, the air tugging at her hair like a teasing child. She tugged her jacket tighter around herself and tucked her elbows in, until the red leather gave a squeak of discomfort._

_Before she could reach the back entrance, she stopped. The wind left as suddenly as it had arrived, its departure drawing out an oppressive silence that seemed to draw from every inch of the land its suffering. It fell heavy, and it fell fast, and then – quieter than a twig snapping in the middle of a forest – a click._

_She turned, and knew even before she saw the glint of sunlight reflected on the revolver’s barrel that she was in trouble._

_“Good to know pigs can still follow orders.”_

_A bang, she fell to the ground and—_

“Wait… So, who’s this one, again?”

Regina batted her hand towards Graham, like a persistent and annoying fly were circling her shoulders, and readjusted her laptop screen. She picked up the disposable coffee cup Graham had set down for her twenty minutes prior and lifted it to her mouth.

“If you’re so desperate to find out, you’ll have to wait until September, like everybody else.”

She took a sip, but the coffee was cold. Cringing away from it, she set the cup down and cracked her fingers.

“Ah, yes. September. How much are you getting paid this time, again?” He lifted her wasted coffee cup up from where she’d left it, and stalked around to the bin beside his desk.

Regina lifted her eyes and opened her mouth, well prepared for a cutting remark to come springing out. In truth, though, while she wasn’t writing for popularity or fame’s sake, selling a few more copies of her novels would prove… useful.

“I’ll have the rent money next week, I told you.”

Graham held his hands up, his expression missing nothing but a white flag. “I know. I just worry about you.”

Regina scoffed. “Worry about me? You’re _wor_ ried. About me.”

“You’re not indestructible,” he reminded her, coming around the spare desk she’d claimed as her own, being careful not to trip on the wire of her laptop charger. “And as…interesting as these are, who was the last person to sustain a living on writing books, anyway?” And before she could open her mouth, “You’re not J.K. Rowling.”

“ _Interesting_. Really?” Graham matched her frown, as though to ask, ‘from that entire sentence, _that_ is what you choose to take offence from?’ Regina angled her laptop towards her defensively and, at Graham’s raised eyebrows, added, “It’s a first draft.”

“It’s not paying your bills. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to sound like an ass, but maybe it’s time you focused a little more on your work. Just until your books go global and you have screaming teenagers pitching tents in your back garden.”

Regina rolled her eyes and turned back to her laptop, hitting save a few times – because once surely wasn’t enough when it came to such an important document. She was clearly done for the day. “My target audience doesn’t encompass teenagers,” she muttered, folding her laptop away and lifting up her bag. “And I have a job, already. It might not bring in much pay, but it keeps me occupied. Which is more than I can say for you, dear.”

She threw an arm out, encompassing the station in its entirety in their conversation, and said, “I’m sorry to have kept you, _sheriff_ , I can see just how busy a day you’ve been having.”

“Laugh it up,” Graham nodded, plucking the darts from the cork board attached to the back wall. “But if the crime rate was any higher, it’d mess up your Zen and you wouldn’t be able to write a word.”

“On the contrary,” Regina sighed, pulling on her jacket and the strap of her laptop bag, “I think that’s exactly what I need. Maybe I should go to Boston… New York.” She pulled the door to the station open, leaning against it as she paused in thought. “I could dance for a living, and fall in love with a rich man… oh, wait. Does that only happen in Paris?”

Graham flashed her a grin as he took up position, ready to throw the first dart.

“Not before you pay your rent, Mills.”

 

# # # #

 

“A gunman?” August grinned above the rim of his coffee mug, carefully blowing at the coiling steam that threatened to rise straight up his nostrils. “Interesting.”

Regina scowled at him and removed the end of her ballpoint pen from her mouth. “There’s that word again – _interesting_.”

August gave a slight lift of his leather-clad shoulders and took a testing sip of his drink. “How is the old Wolfhound?”

“Impatient for rent.” She dropped her pen to the notepad, careful not to smudge the ink across the page. “And just what does everybody have against gunmen?”

“It’s a bit of a—” August went to say, but at Regina’s ‘do not use the T word’ glare, hesitated and corrected himself. “Abandoned libraries, anonymous tippers. It’s escalating quickly, is all.”

“I’m writing a series about a bailbonds-person. If every job was easy, I’d have no material to work with. I’m keeping it… realistic.”

August cocked a brow. “Who was the last _bailbonds-person_ you interviewed? Researched into? Read up on?”

Dropping her gaze, Regina slid her fingers beneath her notepad and gave it a sharp ruffle, re-aligning the frayed pages that were bent back on themselves. “I’ve had no complaints yet.” She only raised her head again upon hearing a snicker at the opposite end of the table. “And I’ve received reviews – letters, even – from bailbonds-people who have congratulated my ability to capture the essence of the kind of lifestyle that I’m portraying.

“And besides,” she sniffed, “I do research.”

“Only after you’ve read back what you’ve written,” August commented, and his teasing demeanour fell into one of partial confusion. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting high to write this.” He tapped his finger over the top margin of her notepad, and she briskly knocked his hand away with her knuckles.

“I write in the moment, that’s how I work.” She gave a delayed roll of her eyes, muttering, “I’m not the one trying to recapture the Beat Generation.”

“It was a bit of marijuana,” August pled, his elbows sliding across the table to create a hunch in his back, “and it was one time.”

“And we all remember the masterpiece that came of it,” Regina smirked, reaching for her glass of water and taking a sip, while August groaned, his hands coming up to catch his chin. “Walt Whitman meets Heather Hansen.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“ _I bathe in the soil of my ancestors’ graves…_ ”

“It wasn’t that bad!” August chortled, and wet his lips to tame the smile that came too naturally to them at the sound of Regina’s laugh.

“It could have been forgiven, considering it’s not your usual form, but painting your neighbours’ walls with the dirt that clung to your naked body – beautiful touch, by the way, Mr. Booth—”

He tipped his head. “Thank you.”

“—it’s not something tiny little towns tend to forget.”

“It was symbolic,” he argued. “Want another?”

She shook her head and stood as he placed his empty coffee mug back on the table. “I have work to do.”

“Maybe you should just take a little time out.”

“Hm?”

He gestured to the notepad in her hands and, at her immediate show of defence, argued, “You’ve written one character for years, now. Maybe it’s time to change it up a little?”

Regina slid her notepad and pen into her bag, offended. “I don’t need a new character, I need break.” Besides, she thought, if she could let this character go, she probably would have done years ago. It wasn’t like little miss Emma Swan was bringing in her monies.

“Where’re you gonna find that?” she heard August call after her as she turned to leave. He received only the jingle of a bell in answer as Regina exited through the front door.

 

# # # #

 

“…need a break,” Regina grumbled to herself, stuffing her bag into the passenger’s seat as she climbed into the car. It was a weak excuse, but ignoring the unimpressed stares of those she shared her writing ideas to was becoming more difficult by the second. Maybe she just had to grow a thicker skin… (surely, she’d be positively reptilian if she did).

“And you’re no help,” she frowned, eyes meeting those that stared back at her from her rear-view mirror. “Traversing around abandoned libraries on your own – held hostage by a _gunman_ – god, why do I even listen to you?”

She turned the key in the ignition and started the car, losing sight of her rear-view mirror once she was successfully on the road again. When the voice came, it was somewhere behind her ear, as though the figment of her imagination were pressed right up against her headrest.

“A little sympathy here, huh? I can leave you any time – I don’t come here for _pleasure_.”

Regina noted the joking tone even despite the pain that leaked through. “You’re hurt,” she said, and sighed deeply. “Fantastic. How many chapters am I going to have to waste on you watching television and eating ice cream from the tub?”

“Why waste any? You’re a writer, you can cheat. Stick a few blank pages in there, even. It’s symbolic.” Emma appeared in her rear-view mirror, again, and Regina narrowed her eyes at the beginnings of a bruise around her left eye. “By the way, after this, I’m taking a week off.” Even as she said the words, however, there was that _smile_ about her lips, and Regina inwardly cringed.

“Oh, not Heather, again.”

“Who said anything about Heather?”

“Emma, she’s your neighbour, it’s inappropriate.”

“Will you just keep your eyes on the road?”

“She hears each and every ruffian you bring home, I don’t know why she still bothers with you.”

Emma’s voice came directly within her ear this time, and Regina could swear that she felt hot breath against her neck. “I’ll be sure to give you plenty of material to work with.” For a second, she was at a loss for words. “Pages upon _pages_ of material.”

Regina’s mouth flapped. “Disgusting.” A laugh was heard from her back seat, and she took a left turn, sharper than initially intended (and damnit if she didn’t take any satisfaction in the sound of a hard skull connecting with a car door from behind her).

“You know, maybe you could stop being so jealous and work on getting a little something of your own, huh?”

Regina scoffed. “What?”

“This whole crush-on-your-favourite-character thing isn’t doing you any favours, ya feel me?” Regina felt Emma loop an arm around the back of her seat. “I mean, I’m flattered, really, but considering I’m just a part of this,” Regina shook her head against the persistent finger tapping at her scalp, “I can’t help you.”

“Oh, by ‘favourite character’, you mean yourself?” she asked, and smirked at the gust of breath that hit her hair.

“Come on, you can’t admit nothing’s wrong when you find yourself living with six-foot-two-and-Irish-lilt and you haven’t even screwed him once.”

“Not all of us are – sex-craved,” Regina fought, skin stretching around her knuckles.

“Yeah…” It came out defeated, but amused, and Regina felt Emma’s arm leave her chair as she fell back against the backseat. “Not all of us allow our work to back us into celibacy.”

 

# # # #

 

Regina slammed her car door shut and fought her way up the drive, purse over one shoulder and laptop bag over the other, while trying to ready her keys for unlocking the front door to the apartment block. _Celibacy_ , she scoffed. She wasn’t celibate. It had been – well, she just had better things to focus on.

The worst thing was, though, that the conversation had come from her own mind. Was she really worried about being unintentionally celibate? Because, there were worse things… It was pathetic, she thought, letting herself into the apartment and closing the door shut behind her. She didn’t miss sex – she’d become somewhat of an expert when it came to taking care of herself – but the celibacy issue wasn’t the problem.

Emma had meant to say that she was lonely. Which meant to say that _Regina_ had thought herself lonely.

The more Regina thought about it, the more it hurt her head, so she swiftly dumped the thought, along with her laptop bag, on a sofa, then made her way into the kitchen. She’d have a light dinner, and then try again to make progress with her writing. Perhaps she’d feel a little more inspired with a full stomach…

 

# # # #

 

If Regina Mills only ever wrote when she was in the mood for writing, she’d have written—well. Very little. It was usually relatively easy to force 1000 words in a day, and, Regina found, at least 100 of those might be something that she could work with at a later date.

As it was, she was sitting at her laptop, glasses on the bridge of her nose, pencil skirt swapped for yoga pants, and slouching back into the sofa cushions, with the faint taste of _Rosé_ lacing her palette. Really, the mood should have been perfect. The lights weren’t too bright, the apartment was near-silent, and yet, still, her fingers refused to make intelligent contact with the keyboard.

Sliding off her glasses, Regina wet her lips and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She counted to ten, and then remained in position, waiting for the familiar feeling of Emma’s presence to come to her. It was easier when the infuriating blonde wasn’t around – she needed _peace_ to be able to write – but it seemed her well of motivation was running disastrously dry.

Any second now, the air would change around her. It would begin with the faint smell of smoke, a ringing in her ears, and the feeling of a cold smog taking hold of her hair from behind. Regina knew the feeling well – had learned not to question it. It was her writer’s intuition, as far as she was concerned. (And, hey, it could be worse, she reminded herself, thinking of August’s dip into marijuana.)

Seconds passed, each one punctuated by a ‘tick’ or a ‘tock’ from the mantel clock. Regina felt her nose twitch. She hesitated to scratch it, fingers closing into fists, and then… she was there.

Regina felt Emma enter the room like a flock of birds. Thick waves of unbridled emotion were flowing from her, surrounding Regina like a sea, and Regina really felt as though she was just some tiny fisherman trying to describe the ocean.

When she opened her eyes, however, her apartment was empty.

“Don’t you dare desert me now, Swan,” she whispered to herself, setting her laptop down and standing.

She had to be here. She was always here, whenever Regina called her. She moved around the living room, checked first the kitchen and the bathroom, and then turned to her bedroom. When that turned up empty of imaginary blondes, she turned, frowning, and stood silently in her living room. If Emma was here, she would hear her. She wasn’t particularly good at keeping shtum, and while Regina had come to resent the one-sided conversations she’d often find herself caught up in, right now, she wouldn’t mind if Emma sprung from behind a door and began reciting the alphabet backwards, in German.

“Ms. Swan?” she tried, once, and heard the briefest flicker of noise to her right.

Her eyes settled on Graham’s bedroom door. He’d likely left his window open, again, and a draft was shifting his blinds. Still, it was the only place within the apartment, bar the kitchen cupboards, that she hadn’t checked. She took a step closer towards the door, hand settling on the handle, and began to apply pressure, when—

The intercom buzzer sounded. It was enough unexpected noise to make Regina jump, and, cursing, she released the door handle and stormed towards the receiver. She picked up the phone a little too harshly, holding it to her mouth, and barked, “It’s open.”

Vaguely, she hoped that it was just Graham having forgotten his keys, and punched the button that gave whoever was waiting outside access to the front door. Like Graham had said, though, it wasn’t like the crime rates were soaring in Storybrooke; if anyone was trying to murder her, they most likely wouldn’t come knocking at her door.

Then again, she thought, perhaps just a fraction of a second too late, that might be the perfect, unsuspecting method of abducting someone in such an idyllic town as this…

Before she could question herself any further, there sounded a knock on the door. That was quick. Someone was certainly eager to see her, Regina thought with growing unease, and moved towards the door. They didn’t have a eyehole – her fault, mainly, but Graham could have insisted – and so she had no way of knowing who was on the other side without opening up and greeting them.

“Oh, you old fool,” she muttered to herself, shaking the fear from her, and reached for the handle. It wasn’t anything serious – probably a kid trying to sell cookies. Nothing to worry about. She clenched her fingers down on the handle, and turned.

As it was, it wasn’t a child on the other side of the door. Regina stared at the woman in confusion, because, surely, this couldn’t be happening…

Emma Swan stood before her, looking far too real to have come from Regina’s imagination. She was even dressed the same as Regina’s ‘imaginary friend’, in a red leather jacket and jeans, boots with scruffs on the toes that not even a good dose of polish could fix up. Her expression was timid, a purple blush around one eye, where she’d tried her best to conceal the bruise that Regina had yet to find out how she had gotten.

In one hand she had a book – the latest of the series that Regina had published, only a year old, and clearly a new copy. In the other was a card, and she seemed to be showing it to Regina in explanation. Vaguely, Regina realised that it was written in the same font that she had imagined the other card to be written in – the one in her novel, directing Emma to the abandoned library.

A strange noise climbed out of her throat, like a stammered croak, and Regina swiftly met the other woman’s eyes.

“Hi,” Emma finally spoke, voice tentative. “Are you Regina Mills? I—I’m Emma.”


End file.
